November 29, 2016|
I am temporarily on my bedroom floor, until someone else takes it. And I don't know when that date will be, only that it will be soon.
Too many reminders of my worthlessness today. Too many reminders of the homelessness that seems to be a part of me now. Applying to low income housing is like trying to fill out a void as if it's paperwork.
Someone asking why I would want to finish a game in one night, wouldn't I rather take my time, seeming to forget that the return to my car's backseat looms overhead like a nightmare that doesn't die in daylight. I want to take my time on Dishonored 2, but I didn't think I would even get a chance to play it. Now I am. And I love it. And I never want to leave.
I guess that's true of much of my life. Even having a stable home didn't feel stable, and it didn't feel like home. Instead, the superficial stability allowed me to visit places I felt at home. Places in my mind. Places accessible through electricity and power outlets. Privileged places that are lost when I lose my bedroom.
Another friend asks about how I'm doing. And it comes up.
My mother brings up the question she asked the upcoming tenant, if she'd mind sharing her bathroom for a reduced rent. Why she wouldn't think to include me in her thoughts when renting the room is the background radiation that seems to have replaced me.
And I just want to be up all night, playing through that beautiful world, but I do want to take my time, and I do want to sleep, and I do want to take long, aimless, thoughtful walks. But I don't have time for it all.
On the crowded train a beautiful woman in a red coat stood across from me the whole way. As I moved in, she moved with me. She would close her eyes serenely. And I noticed her clothing and bags, how nice it all was. How clean. How vibrant. How expensive.
I thought of all the ways I could never be in her life.
I sat down after she left, a seat opening up at the moment she left. I noticed a man's shoes, his bag, his jeans. Everyone on the train has nice things. And I think I'm blinding myself to the people who are struggling. And I am. But all I can see are the people who aren't. All I can see is me in their negative space, a picture that they'd never want or need to see, and I am also a picture that wants to never be seen.